“Memories” is one of my first attempts at a larger abstract acrylic painting on a 16 x 20 inch canvas. I’ve been painting for a few months now and have really enjoyed having an additional creative outlet aside from poetry and music.
I haven’t written much poetry over the last few months because I’m trying my hand at abstract art. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing, and maybe that’s why I’m enjoying it so much. In some ways, it is like my process of writing; I usually begin without knowing the end result. Sometimes it is garbage, but at other times something cool happens. For instance, I can stare at this untitled acrylic pour for a long time and still not see everything that’s there. It is somehow ethereal, cosmic, calming, and chaotic at the same time. Maybe then, it should be titled “Life”.
somewhere the light fades
faster than one would like,
not knowing if another day
will break. years are etched
upon the skin with lines
carved deep. but the heart,
fierce with age, finds a way
to shine on well into the night.
the weight crushes
except the dull ache
which swells slowly
to a roaring blast.
it rips the hinges
from the storm cellar,
winds its way deeper
down and finds you
in your darkness
searching for light.
** I have dealt with depression, and there is no shame if you have felt the same. Writing poetry is one way that has helped me navigate those feelings, but I also reached out to family, friends, a good counselor, and yes, medication has been a big help. Please reach out if you feel you are losing hope. Help is there. https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
as a child i can remember him
slipping away from the house
into the shed, then reappearing
with a hand-made baseball bat,
one of the many he crafted long
ago for a forgotten ozark team.
they all shattered or cracked
from wear, and we believed
all were lost. but after he died
we found a bag inside the shed
under years of dirt and dust,
twelve baseball bats remained.
i keep one near my desk, still
smooth with the brand burned
deep in the wood like the many
memories of him upon our minds.
the year is half-gone into eternity,
and time’s black hole does not relent.
what is this place where we believe
we can acquire anything, but always
leave empty-handed and alone?
we live in a slumber where dreams
seem like reality while existence spills
from our bodies like jet fuel behind
a damaged aircraft in mid-flight.
It has been a year or so since I first started posting on a consistent basis, and I’ve settled into posting about once a week now. I’m thankful that you continue to take a few moments to read my poems. You have helped me to write more consistently and to keep creating.
Today, I am posting a few poems from the past year that readers have enjoyed the most. Thank you again for stopping by.
the cemetery bench
wind weaves through the graves
whispering names long worn
from the headstones. we visit
on anniversaries, speak in low tones,
but mostly sit, as if before a mirror,
wondering what face will appear.
how many years will these ghosts
stay with us, whispering secrets
we will only understand when light
fades giving way to brighter sight?
Walking at Night
The leaves do not fear fall,
and the fading sun
does not quarrel with the moon.
The berries on the bough
are bitter indeed, so why
do I walk in these woods
on frozen nights of shadow
when you have not been here
for a thousand years?
I remember the smoke
above the horizon,
spreading out until dusk
swallowed it whole.
People stared across
the plain, tested the wind,
wondered which way
the fire would turn.
But I was transfixed
by something invisible
attending to our sorrows.